


When You Say That You Are Weak

by too many stars to count (imagined_away)



Series: of the sea and the stars [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Race Changes, Disabled Character, Female Character of Color, Female Friendship, Femlock, Gen, Physical Disability, Racebending, WOC!Sherlock, disabled!Joan Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagined_away/pseuds/too%20many%20stars%20to%20count
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which disabled does not mean weak. And the universe proves once again that every Holmes will find their Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Say That You Are Weak

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of stories featuring WOC!Sherlock and disabled!Joan. Other characters will be almost identical to their in-show counterparts. Please see the series for a more complete summary.
> 
> The title is taken from this poem by sinandserotonin on tumblr.
> 
> WARNING: One brief use of a racial slur against people of African descent.

Joan gets used to the limp surprisingly fast.

She doesn’t like it (how could she?) and it slows her down enough to make her grind her teeth in frustration (especially on the _bloody_ stairs) but she finds herself surprised by how soon navigating with extra care for her leg becomes second nature. Before Joan knows it she’s taking the shorter steps the limp requires and carefully easing herself in and out of chairs like she’s been doing it her whole life.

It shouldn’t surprise her, not really. Joan is - was - a doctor after all and she knows how quickly the human body can adapt when forced to. Survival, when it comes right down to it, is paramount to all else. Not that Joan needs to be reminded of that. But still, the knowledge that she’s not exempt even in this, that her body will accept this as permanent even if her brain won’t (can’t), shocks her.

The cane is the worst part but even that becomes like another limb within a few weeks. Soon Joan’s stopped even trying to trick herself into thinking she can stand without it. Her doctors say that come summer - and a few more months of physio - she’ll have a much better chance of walking without assistance. The cold of London in winter, especially compared to the bright, constant, heat of the Afghan desert, makes her muscles feel too tight, as if they’re constantly pulling themselves much too far just to do simple things like walk from one end of her bedsit to the other.

Technically speaking she _can_ walk without the cane, but only in blinding agony and for extremely short distances. The pull on her muscles is unending and, with the whisper of her family’s addictive nature always in her ear, Joan feels she’s better off with the cane than the pain pills. That doesn’t mean she has to like it though. It galls her that she can’t even use the damned thing properly - that’s what happens when you end up with a bullet in one shoulder and another in the opposite thigh though. Using the cane right handed puts a strain on her shoulder but it’s nothing compared to the fire that crawls along her nerves when she tries to use it left handed.

Joan does exercises for both shoulders to be on the safe side. It’s starting to feel like the only side she has any chance on, these days.

~*~

The day she meets Sherlock Holmes is the only time she makes the mistake of forgetting about her leg.

(It’s almost impossible to completely forget about it in all reality. The constant pull and burn just under her skin. The way she has to navigate for the cane on the bus and the tube - where old ladies now awkwardly shuffle to their feet to let her sit down - and the careful steps she takes on stairs she’ll never be able to skip over again. Joan watches pensioners out strip her on walks and has to grind her teeth to keep from screaming. She has nightmares about nature documentaries where lions pick out the weak and the sick to target and take down. It’s a bloody miracle she forgot about her god damned leg for even one fucking second.)

Joan’s walking home from Sainbury’s, her shopping packed into a backpack that makes her feel about sixteen again but allows her to get to and from the shop unassisted and therefore feel like a capable adult (her life sometimes feels like it’s made up entirely of paradoxes these days), when a sharp voice behind her yells, “Stop him! Somebody _stop_ him for fuck’s sake!”

She turns to see a burly white bloke in a leather jacket pushing his way through the crowd. Running doggedly behind him is a thin black girl with beautiful curly hair flying around her head and skinny jeans so tight Joan’s amazed she can run at all. Behind _her_ is what can only be a cop from the way he’s flashing something metal around and yelling for people to get out of the way. His hair is gray and he’s got the look of a man who’s done this too many times before. Joan’s barely processed all of this by the time the original runner draws even with her. Without even thinking she slams her cane into his knee, bringing him down with a howl of agony.

It should probably worry her how good it feels. (It doesn’t.)

He gets up surprisingly fast though, already trying to make another run for it. Joan drops her cane and backpack and lunges, rugby tackling him. She screams as they hit the ground, a jarring pain shooting up her leg and into her back, her vision blacking out momentarily as the breath explodes from her chest. In a flash the other girl is on him holding him down as Joan rolls off and to the side, clutching her leg and trying to breathe.

“Let go of me you piece of shit nigger! Get the fuck off! God damn cunt putting her nose where it don’t fuckng belong.” Joan looks over, still breathing heavily, to see him squirming ineffectively. The woman, whoever she is, is kneeling squarely on his back, holding his wrists in a way that almost seems casual. Her eyes narrow as he continues to shout and swear, but he never comes close to getting free.

“I’d shut it if I were you, Thompson.” The final member of whatever this is has caught up to them. He drops to his knees already pulling out a pair of handcuffs and has them on before Joan’s managed to sit up. In the distance she hears sirens. “Good job, Sherlock,” he says nodding to the woman, apparently Sherlock, that she can let go. Thompson is unceremoniously hauled to his feet. Joan wouldn’t say the officer’s being rough, but he certainly doesn’t seem inclined to be gentle. “Jacob Thompson, you’re under arrest on suspicion of assault and battery. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence...”

“Thanks for that.” Joan looks up to see Sherlock standing over her, a hand outstretched. Out of habit Joan’s eyes sweep up and down looking for injury. When she meets Sherlock’s eyes again the other woman is staring at her thoughtfully.

“Um, yeah, no problem.” Joan looks around for her cane and spots it lying just out of arm’s reach. So, evidently, does Sherlock. Without a word she picks it up and hands it to Joan. Then, as if she knows exactly how much Joan hates getting to her feet with people watching, she turns to watch the officer passing Thompson off to another cop, one who’s shown up in a car.

Once Joan’s struggled to her feet she turns back around, eyes sweeping her. She barely even looks at the cane, but her eyes do narrow at the place where the backpack’s strap, retrieved before she stood up, is digging into her left shoulder, directly over her scar. Joan resists the urge to fidget, but the other woman’s eyes snap up to meet her’s regardless, as if she can sense the discomfort.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she says finally, holding a hand out.

“Joan Watson,” Joan manages, shifting the cane so that they can shake hands.

Her eyes flick down to Joan’s leg briefly. “Sniper?”

“I - what?” What the hell does that mean?

“Your leg,” Sherlock says carefully, as if Joan’s being a bit dim, “Was it a sniper wound?”

“Yes? How did you know that?”

“Unimportant,” Her eyes flick over to the police car pulling away with their suspect safely inside. “Let me buy you a coffee.” She says, all of her attention snapping back onto Joan who feels, rather strangely, like she’s under a microscope lens. She finds she doesn’t mind it terribly. Or at all really. They’re interrupted before Joan can think of an answer.

“Thanks for your help, Sherlock.” It’s the cop again. “I’m D.I. Lestrade,” he says sticking his hand out. Joan takes it with the distinct feeling that her life has taken a turn for the surreal. “You really helped us out back there, ma’am.” Great. She’s 27 and already she’s getting ma’amed. “Are you okay? You didn’t just bring him down, you know.”

Joan starts to say that she’s fine - in all honestly rugby tackling that prick was the most exciting thing she’s done in months - when Sherlock interrupts.

“Of course she’s fine, Greg. She got up on her own didn’t she? Calm down, Lestrade. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack one of these days” Sherlock turns away clearly dismissing the D.I.’s concerns. Joan feels her eyebrows make a break for her fringe. She definitely hears Lestrade mutter, “Yeah, _that’s_ what’s gonna give me a heart attack.”

“I’m fine,” she reassures him. “Just lunged a bit too enthusiastically.” Her shoulder twinges, reminding her the cane is still in her left hand and she shifts it accordingly. The D.I.’s eyes follow the movement and Joan works to keep her face perfectly bland. She’s not going to let anyone call attention to the damn thing even if she has to knock someone over the head to be clear about it. “Always happy to help in the pursuit of justice.”

Sherlock sighs, obviously bored of the conversation. “Come on,” she says again, “Let me buy you a coffee. It’s the least I can do. You did rugby tackle my suspect.”

“Your suspect?” Lestrade says looking both faintly amused and a tad exasperated. It’s an expression that fits on his face comfortably and, looking at Sherlock, Joan thinks she has a good guess why.

“I’m the one who realized his alibi didn’t hold up, and I’m also the one who hunted him down. So yes, Lestrade, my suspect.” She’s all but sticking her tongue out at him and Lestrade grins despite himself. From the looks of it he’s obviously making an effort, and failing, to look stern.

“Shut it you. Unless you want another lecture on how you’re not supposed to go chasing off after suspects on your own.” He sighs. “Don’t go haring off after anyone else tonight alright? I’m not taking you to A&E again.”

“At least I called you in this time.” Sherlock says in a tone that suggests he should be feeling more grateful. “Before the fun part got started even.”

“Wonders never cease,” Lestrade says dryly. “Miss - ?”

“Watson,” Joan says, a little surprised to be involved in the conversation again. “Joan Watson.”

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock interrupts, a steely look coming into her eye as if she thinks Joan’s omitted the title of ‘doctor’ just to be difficult.

“I’m not a doctor anymore,” Joan says automatically. And then, “Wait, how did you know I was a doctor?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock says.

“Is it?” Joan’s a little worried she has a stalker. “How is it obvious?”  
Sherlock grins, obviously happy for the chance to show off what she knows. “Your left hand isn’t as sure anymore,” Joan clenches it in a fist self-consciously, “But your right hand is still steady as ever. It’s not your dominant hand, you’ve used your left to grab for everything automatically even though picking things like you backpack up may hurt, but a surgeon would need steadiness in both hands and for extended periods of time. You’ve clearly been shot in the left shoulder accounting for the newly obtained tremor in your hand. And who knows, it’s possible your right hand has gotten even steadier since you were injured, bodies do tend to do things like that.

“But that’s not all. When I went to say thank you, before you got back up, you did a visual check for injuries. Not because there was any real chance I would have been injured, if anyone that would have been you seeing as you tackled him. No, you did it out of habit. A habit formed by training and at least one tour of duty, though I would say several is more likely, looking after the soldiers under your care. In army life, especially in a war, everyone would always have had at least one small injury. Like I said,” she smiles cocky and happy and confident, and Joan can’t help grinning back, just a bit, “Doctor Watson.”

“That was _amazing_!” Joan says, awed by the analysis. “You were spot on about - everything actually.”

Sherlock blinks a few times looking a little awed herself. “I - well - people don’t normally react like that.” She says after a moment, sounding as if she has no idea what to do with Joan’s praise.

“No?” Joan can’t imagine anyone _not_ reacting like that.

“One of the forensics techs tried to hit me when I announced his affair to a room full of his colleagues.” Sherlock looks away for a moment. “In my defense he was doing such a poor job of hiding it I assumed it was common knowledge.”

“And then you nearly broke his wrist.” Lestrade says looking morbidly cheerful at the memory. “You had him crying!”

“Yes, well, it’s not exactly difficult to accomplish now is it?” Sherlock says trying not to look as pleased as she obviously feels.

“That doesn’t change the fact that I’m still not a practicing doctor anymore.” Joan feels compelled to point out.

“Please,” Sherlock says, looking distinctly unimpressed. “As if that means anything. You’re still a doctor at heart.”

“Not that this isn’t fascinating,” Lestrade says looking between the two of them, “But is it alright if I just call you Joan?” he asks grinning and she nods, laughing. “Thank you, again, you did us a huge favor. Me especially, I wasn’t keen on chasing him down into the tube.”

“My pleasure,” Joan says still grinning.

“Sherlock, make sure you come down to the Yard tomorrow, I’m gonna need your statement.”

A brief staring contest ensues. “Make sure Anderson’s not there.” Sherlock says eventually. “I’ll be in before noon.” The D.I. nods to both of them one more time and then sets back in the direction he originally came from.

“So, again,” Sherlock says, “And please pay attention this time, repeating myself is a complete waste of time and energy, let me buy you a coffee.”

“Why not?” Joan says. It’s not as if she has anywhere to be after all.

~*~

The cafe isn’t too far away which is nice.

Even nicer is the way Sherlock keeps pace with her without seeming to need to try.

When they get there Joan orders tea with lots of milk (it’s a luxury after Afghanistan that she still can’t get used to) and Sherlock rattles off one of the most complicated drink orders ever heard by a coffee shop employee. The girl behind the counter takes it in stride though. Joan suspects this isn’t her first time making the drink.

“You’re young for a plain clothes officer aren’t you?” Joan asks once they’re both seated. Sherlock looks like she’s just this side of twenty, but surely she couldn’t actually _be_ that young. Right? “You must be very good,” she adds thinking of Sherlock’s conversation with Lestrade.

“I am very good,” Sherlock says and Joan has to admire her refusal to give into false modesty. “And I’m 25 which is young for a plain clothes detective. Or would be I were a cop.”

Joan takes a moment to feel very attractive while she nearly chokes on her tea. “Wait, you don’t work for the police?”

Sherlock snorts. “God, no, never. I work _with_ them.” Joan stares not sure what that actually means. Sherlock rolls her eyes, “I’m a Consulting Detective,” she announces when it becomes clear Joan doesn’t have a response. The way Sherlock says it, proud and happy and smiling widely, makes Joan picture the words in clear, firm, Capital Letters in her mind.

“I - ” Joan shakes her head, smiling back, “I have no idea what that is,” she admits.

“You wouldn’t,” Sherlock says blithely, sipping her coffee. “I’m the only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“You invented - ” she blinks a few times and then reconsiders, “Of course you did.” Joan can’t find it in herself to be surprised, really. The more she learns about Sherlock the less she can imagine her doing a job she _didn’t_ invent. “So what do you do exactly?”

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to blink. “It’s a fairly self explanatory job title I should think.”

“Not if you aren’t the world’s one and only Consulting Detective,” Joan says.

“I hire myself out to solve crimes. Not,” Sherlock says sharply as Joan opens her mouth, “Like a private investigator.” Joan shuts her mouth with an audible click of teeth. “Private investigators solve people’s affairs and petty lies and _boring_ problems like that.” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand, clearly unimpressed with this sort of detective work. “I don’t have time for nonsense like that. I do take cases from private clients of course, when they’re interesting enough to bother with. Mostly though I work with the police. They always have the best murders. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I get a serial killer.” Sherlock heaves a dreamy sigh as if a serial killer is all that anyone could ask for in life.

Probably Joan should feel more concern over Sherlock’s apparent reverence for serial killers and other murdering types. Instead, trying not to sound too interested and failing miserably if Sherlock’s eyebrow, raised in apparent amusement, is any indication, Joan asks, “What kind of private cases _do_ you agree to take on?”

“Well,” Sherlock steeples her fingers, apparently thinking. “The last case I took on for a private client was earlier this month. A young woman approached me who had been sent two human ears, no longer attached to their owners of course, in the post. It’s amazing what you can still get through the post office, all this supposed security really is rubbish. They belonged to two different people, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Joan agrees, fascinated already. “Why did someone send her mismatched ears in the mail?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Sherlock shakes her head dismissively. “It was actually meant for her sister. They had been living together until recently and their names were Sara and Susan. An ex-friend murdered a third sister and her girlfriend and then sent the ears as a warning. It was all rather simple in the end. I had to call Lestrade in of course, though he’s usually good enough about not taking my cases over. Almost all of the interesting private cases end up involving the police one way or another.”

“Imagine that,” Joan says dryly.

Sherlock, either ignoring her or not paying attention, Joan can’t tell, continues on with a wistful look, “There was one old man though - his sons hired me - who had been completely paranoid at the time of his disappearance that someone was trying to kill him. His sons didn’t believe him until he went missing. The police couldn’t get involved - they didn’t find any evidence of force to suggestion the man had left his home involuntarily.”

“But you did?” Joan clarifies.

“No, no, the police were quite right, no evidence that he’d be kidnapped. They did, however, miss the rather crucial part where he was _still in the house._ ” Joan feels herself gape. “Yes, it turned out that in his paranoia he’d not only booby trapped the entire house, he’d built little hidey holes all over the place. He even stored food in them. Took us ages to make our way through the house and find him without setting anything off. Almost brained his older son with a frying pan when we finally found the right cupboard.” She sighs in what Joan can only describe as a dreamy manner, clearly admiring anyone with that much ingenuity.

Joan smiles down into her nearly empty teacup. She doesn’t want to finish her tea and go but maybe Sherlock would want to get tea again some-

“You should move in with me.”

“Excuse me?” Joan looks up from contemplating her tea in surprise.

“Right. Shouldn’t have led with that. Too direct. Let me try again.” She closes her eyes and takes a slow steady breath, apparently gathering her social skills, before saying, “I’m looking for a flatmate. So are you. Interested?” It’s possible Sherlock’s social skills leave something to be desired.

“How do you know I’m looking for a flatmate?” Joan asks.

“How could you _not_ be?” Sherlock asks in response rolling her eyes. “Born and raised in London - you love this city. You’re currently living off an army pension though - hard to afford anything decent on that,” her eyes sweep over Joan, “I see you’re living in some horrifically depressing army-provided bedsit.” Joan resists the urge to look down at herself and try to find whatever Sherlock is so clearly seeing, but only just.

“I’ve got a tip on a very nice flat, great location, the landlady’s cutting me a deal. The building’s got an elevator,” Sherlock continues blithely, neatly answering Joan’s biggest concern without actually letting her voice it. “What do you think?” Sherlock asks expectantly, bright eyed with anticipation.

“I think you’re bloody insane,” Joan says seriously. Sherlock’s entire face shuts down, her hazel eyes shutter and go dull. “When can we go take a look?”

Sherlock’s look of surprise would be comical if it wasn’t just downright painful. “Well,” she says, clearly scrambling to find her footing. “Tomorrow afternoon? Say around one? It shouldn’t take more than an hour or two to explain all the details on the case in terms Lestrade can understand.”

Joan takes a sip of her tea only to realize the cup is empty. “Should we exchange numbers then?” She asks, setting her cup back down.

“No need,” Sherlock says, inexplicably holding Joan’s own phone out to her. “I added my number to your phone and then texted myself so I’d have yours.” Sputtering Joan takes her phone from Sherlock.

“How did you get this?” Joan asks scrolling through her contacts. Sure enough there’s a new entry labeled ‘Sherlock’.

“I pick pocketed you when we were standing in line to order.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow in apparent expectation of Joan’s response.

Joan, despite herself, starts laughing. “Oh God,” she says trying to stop laughing as the people nearest them start to stare, “You _are_ confident aren’t you?”

“But never falsely so,” Sherlock says, laughing too. Her giggle send Joan, who’d nearly gotten herself under control, back off. They both sink down in their seats, hands raised to try and muffle themselves. Sherlock all but gawfs as the man at the table next to them gives a disapproving sniff, rattling his newspaper pointedly.

“Is this a habit of yours?” Joan asks as they finally quiet down. “Should I start wearing a chain to keep all my possessions attached to me?”

“No,” Sherlock says, rolling her eyes. “You should start paying attention. And that depends entirely on how define ‘often’.” Joan rolls her eyes too. Of course Sherlock wants more precise parameters.

“Okay,” Joan says. “Who was the last person you pick pocketed before me?”

“That answer will not give you an accurate idea of how frequently this happens.” Sherlock says primly, looking just the tiniest bit awkward. Joan simply waits, expectant. Sherlock mutters something.

“Come again?” Joan’s trying not to smile, honest.

Sherlock sighs reaching into her back pocket and says, once again, “I nick Lestrade’s badge a few times a month. Keeps him on his toes and helps me stay sharp.” With a scowl Sherlock produces Lestrade’s Warrant Card.

“How do you not get arrested _constantly?”_ Joan asks, laughing.

“You’re assuming I don’t,” Sherlock tells her with a smirk.

“Nah,” Joan says easily, “Lestrade thinks you’re brilliant, it’s obvious.”

“That’s because I am,” Sherlock says with a shrug. She glances down at her phone before shooting to her feet, downing the rest of her drink as she does. “Damn! I need to get to the morgue, Molly’s holding a corpse for me.”

Joan doesn’t even bother asking for an explanation, instead just saying, “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock says distractedly, texting frantically on her phone, “One o’clock, I’ll see you then.” With that Sherlock heads for the door, still texting.

“Wait!” Joan calls, struggling to her feet, “You didn’t tell me the -” her phone pings as Sherlock lets the door fall shut behind her. It’s a text. From Sherlock.

_221b Baker Street. See you. - SH_

Joan looks up in time to see Sherlock turn the corner out of sight, grinning down at her phone. “Git,” Joan says in a tone that is already more fond than annoyed.

~*~

With some careful rearranging of her budget (and a wistful farewell to any chance of getting that packet of hob knobs at the store this week) Joan scrapes together a few extra quid and takes a cab to meet Sherlock. The tube and buses are an absolute nightmares around lunch (and in general really) and she doesn’t want to risk being late. Joan’s just paying the driver when Sherlock comes into view.

“Joan!” Sherlock says with a warm smiles. She looks the tiniest bit surprised, as if she hadn’t been sure Joan would show up. Abruptly Joan wants to smack whoever so obviously disappointed Sherlock in the past ‘round their head with her cane.

“Hullo,” she replies, following Sherlock to the door. “This is lovely. Must be quite the hot bit of retail.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock says knocking sharply. “As I said, the landlady’s cutting me a deal. I helped her solve a bit of trouble with her husband.”

“Oh?” Joan inquires, “He have a problem that needed solving?”

“He was the problem,” Sherlock says with a dark look that clears instantly as the door opens to reveal a small, elderly, woman.

“Sherlock!” She cries, already reaching her arms out.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson!” In the few hours they’ve known each other, this is easily the happiest Joan’s seen her.

“You’re getting too skinny again!” Mrs. Hudson proclaims. “All that dashing about you do. You’ve got to take a rest and eat something now and again you know.”

Sherlock rolls her eyes but she’s still grinning. “I’m perfectly fine, Mrs. Hudson. Now,” she turns to the side a bit, including Joan in their orbit. “This is Doctor Joan Watson. Joan, this is Mrs. Hudson, a queen among ladies.”

“Just Joan is fine,” Joan says firmly, shifting the cane to shake hands. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she says politely.

“Oh, it’s a pleasure!” Mrs. Hudson says kindly. “You look like you could do with some feeding up too young lady.”

“I’m always open to good food,” Joan says with a smile.

“Yes, yes, everyone loves food, how wonderful,” Sherlock says ushering them inside. Now. Could we see the flat Mrs. Hudson? Sometime today, perhaps?”

“Sherlock there’s no reason to be rude,” Mrs. Hudson scolds, even as she digs through her dress pockets for the keys. “Now,” she shoots a quick look at Joan, “Let’s head to the lift shall we?” Joan can’t help the grimace of distaste. “Oh, don’t be like that dear,” she says (luckily) patting Joan’s good shoulder. “I’ve got a bad hip myself, the lift is perfect for me.” Joan smiles as politely as she can manage.

Once in the lift Mrs. Hudson sticks the key into a slot next to the button reading _B._ Sherlock immediately starts inspecting the lift panel, pushing the curls that bounce into her face back with an impatient hand. The flat seems to be on the second floor with only the _A_ unit, which Joan suspects is Mrs. Hudson’s, below them. “This opens straight into the flat,” explains Mrs. Hudson. “So each floor is key locked and then there’s an intercom downstairs that let’s you buzz people right into the lift and your flat. Joan raises her eyebrows, impressed. “It’s all so high-tech these days,” Mrs. Hudson says with fluttering hands. “I don’t understand it, but it’s meant to be quite safe.”

“This would be insanely simple to break into,” Sherlock announces, unimpressed, still studying the panel. “I’ll see what I can do about that,” she offers carelessly.

“Simple for you or simple for most people?” Joan asks. She can already tell this is going to be an important distinction to make.

“Easy for anyone who is even moderately intelligent,” Sherlock scoffs. Mrs. Hudson gives her a fond smile.

“So probably just you and other geniuses,” Joan teases. Sherlock preens a bit while obviously doing her best not to.

“Here we are dears,” Mrs. Hudson says, stepping out of the elevator. “There’s just the one level, both bedrooms have their own bath - assuming you’ll be needing both?”

“Why wouldn’t we need both?” Joan asks in honest to God confusion.

“Oh, don’t be like that, dear. This is a very open minded neighborhood,” Mrs. Hudson insists.

It still takes another minute for the implication to hit Joan. “Oh! Oh, no, I - we just met,” she says hastily. Sherlock is ignoring them both, poking at something on the table that’s caught her attention.

“The flat is lovely,” Joan says firmly, trying to change the subject. And it is. The sitting room is warm and cozy, with good natural light and what appears to be a real wood burning fireplace. All the kitchen appliances seem fairly new. There’s even a sturdy looking dining set - which appears to be housing a laboratory of sorts. “Is the old tenant still moving out still?” Joan looks around at the sheer amount of _stuff_ that still seems to be lying about.

“Hmmm?” Mrs. Hudson hums from the kitchen where she appears to be cleaning erlenmeyer flasks out in the sink. “What was the dear?”

“I was wondering where all this stuff -” Joan’s question dies on her lips as Sherlock snaps up from whatever she’s been bent over studying at the table.

Sherlock begins to shuffle papers together, hastily stuffing them into boxes. “I may have begun to move some things - that is my last living situation ended rather abruptly - it won’t always look like this of course,” Sherlock looks around the room, “Actually, it may be a lot like this,” she admits.

Joan looks around. Some mess isn’t going to kill her. The stark difference from her regulation neat bedsit will do her good. It’ll probably help her to readjust to civilian life.

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asks, apropos of nothing. “I - I play when I’m thinking.” Joan blinks, nonplussed.

“Do you play well?” She asks, laughing when Sherlock’s only response is a deeply offended look. “Of course you do,” Joan teases, unable to help herself, “What _was_ I thinking? I don’t have any particular feelings about the violin.” Joan says honestly, “I’m sure it will be fine.”

The last of the lab equipment cleaned and on the drying rack sends Mrs. Hudson back to the lift. She encourages Joan to, “Take all the time you need, dear,” and leaves them with the firm order that Sherlock and her experiments are not to make a ruin of her flat.

“So?” Sherlock asks, all but bouncing on her feet. “What do you think?”

“It’s nice,” Joan says. Across the room a cow skull gazes balefully down on them. “Really it’s lovely. How could I say no? I’d have to be bloody insane.”

“You’d be amazed how many people seem to think just the opposite,” Sherlock says absentmindedly, making a beeline for the newly cleaned lab equipment. Joan is struck, again, by the almost casual way Sherlock displays loneliness. It’s as if she’s been on her own for so long it doesn’t always register with her still.

“Nutters, the lot of them,” Joan says, barely thinking about it.” Then Sherlock freezes. Slowly, she turns to give Joan an astonished look. Joan smiles before sitting in an unbelievably comfy armchair and swiping up the nearby newspaper. “So, serial suicides, what do you reckon that’s about then?”

It will take Joan nearly a month at Baker Street to realize just how rare it is to strike Sherlock speechless. All the same, she enjoys it now.

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed!
> 
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> If you have questions/comments/things you'd like to discuss feel free to do so here or at my [writing tumblr](inmyquietcorner.tumblr.com) I look forward to hearing from you!
> 
> Looking for more information? Again the series page or my writing tumblr will be your best bets. Sneak peaks and meta will be posted on the tumblr.


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